


Witness bearing

by pearwaldorf



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Synthesis Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3072812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They deserve to be remembered. Like Kelly and Rupert and Gabby. Just like Ash.” </p>
<p>“Nobody said you had to remember them all yourself.” He reaches a hand out to cradle her cheek. “If you want, you can tell me about them, whenever you need.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witness bearing

He finds it hard to sleep nowadays, not that he ever did much before. In an effort to be useful, he spends hours at the main battery console and calibrates, endlessly. (He makes a mental note to have Words with the hack Alliance tech who screwed up the firing algorithms if they make it out of this alive.) Sometimes EDI helps, but mostly it’s just him and the hum of the Thanix: familiar, comforting, and now purring along like it should. He takes a strange sort of satisfaction in improving the targeting efficiencies, increment by minute increment. It’s measurable, and something he can control. It also keeps his mind off things he doesn’t want to think about. (Palaven. Solana. His father.)

He’s gotten so used to silence the door hissing open cracks like a shot in the quiet. Despite himself, he starts, and he hears a tired chuckle behind him. Shepard stands in the doorway, swaddled in the ratty old Alliance-issue t-shirt and sweats she sleeps in. (They're so big she practically swims in them. It makes her look younger, more vulnerable.) She leans against the frame and crosses her arms, amused. When she tilts her head he sees dark smudges under her eyes.

“You should have been watching your six, Garrus. Thank fuck I wasn’t a husk, or I would have been all over you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” The snark comes automatically; he just hopes he puts enough emphasis into his subvocals that it comes across as lascivious. She smirks in response. Good enough.

She stifles a yawn. “What are you doing up?” He asks. “It’s late.”

“Couldn’t sleep. I had nightmares.” Her tone is flat, declarative. She definitely doesn’t want to talk about it. He wonders what in the universe could give the most fearless person he knows bad dreams, and decides not to ponder that anymore.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” She sits down in the corner, perched on a pile of old packing crates. "If you're nice I'll even go to the mess and get you some hot cow juice."

"It's warm milk, actually." She curls up on the top of a crate, tucking up her legs. Evidently she's going to be here awhile, and he finds he’s glad to have the company. He prods at the console a bit more, but finds that he’s not in the headspace for calibrating now that she’s here.

“So. Tell me about your day.” She leans her head against the side of a crate and looks even more tired.

“I found a recording on a dead krogan in the rachni cave. It told me to take it to an asari on the Citadel, so I did. It was a farewell love poem. Did you even know krogans could write poetry?” He shrugs in response, and her voice gets quiet and a little sad. “I would have liked to have met a krogan who wrote poetry.” He walks over to where she’s sitting, kneels down next to her. She rests her head against the cowl of his armor, and he runs his talons through her hair. It’s soft, and smells pleasantly like whatever she uses to clean it.  

“Sometimes I’m reminded of how young your species really is. Everything is still so new. You want to talk to everybody and poke at everything possible. Including the wall safes and data terminals.” She raises her head, starting to look indignant, and he catches her face in his hands. “But it’s because you’re interested. You want to know everything. You want to hear everybody’s stories.” He tips his forehead to hers. “It’s one of the extraordinary things about you.” She doesn’t say anything, just grips his hands tightly. After a few moments she pulls away, thoughtful.

“It’s just... That krogan gave his life to keep the galaxy safe for his krantt and the person he cared about most in the world. And there are thousands, millions like him. They deserve to be remembered. Like Kelly and Rupert and Gabby. Just like Ash.” Her eyes darken, and he’s suddenly grateful humans don’t have eidetic memories.

“Nobody said you had to remember them all yourself.” He reaches a hand out to cradle her cheek. “If you want, you can tell me about them, whenever you need.” She smiles, as if an incremental but persistent weight has been lifted.

“Thank you, Garrus. I think I’d like that.”

//

She comes down more often after missions. If he isn’t part of the ground team she’ll tell him what happened, like when she found that poor kid’s dog tags on Benning. She seems especially keen to remember the people she could have saved, and Grissom Academy is particularly devastating in this regard. (It’s about this time he starts writing things down.)

//

Vega tells him about the religious ritual called confession, and he wonders what kind of strange priest she considers him. He has no advice to offer, much less absolution. He says as much, and the other man laughs, like he’s not understanding an obvious joke.

“It’s not about forgiveness, Scars. It’s about being able to talk to someone who listens. ‘Without judgment, with compassion’, like my old priest would say.” His expression becomes serious. “That’s an important thing. I’m glad you can do that for the Commander.” He punches Garrus on the shoulder and ambles off, as if embarrassed by his sudden candor.

//

A million here, a billion there. Wars and arithmetic. He finds his conscience more settled after that talk, and he wonders if he’s doing the same for her. It’s an awe-full and terrifying feeling.

//

After Tuchanka she doesn’t even try to sleep, and talks herself hoarse about Mordin and Eve. About their unlikely but genuine friendship. The way she felt when she held her first stillborn child. The delight she took in his singing. How she should have saved Maelon’s data. (She doesn’t stop until he threatens to have Chakwas sedate her. The next night she sits in the corner and watches him calibrate by way of apology.)

After the coup on the Citadel she doesn’t talk much at all, just runs her fingers over the prayer book Thane’s son insisted she take with her. (He learns a lot of drell prayers, says a few himself, and when she finally kills Kai Leng, he imagines she looks like Arashu herself.)

//

The war comes and the war goes in a giant green pulse of light that spreads itself through the relays. Everything is different afterwards, and he knows in his bones (delicately traced with winking circuitry no doubt) it’s because of her.

Later, he finds the datapad among his (their) things, and he knows what he has to do. For her. With Liara’s help, he sends it out into the datastream, now ubiquitous and necessary as air.

_My name is Garrus Vakarian. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I know you’ve heard of Commander Shepard. But this isn’t about her. Let me tell you about a krogan who wrote poetry..._


End file.
